Mademoiselle Rosine raised her glass. Her big black eyes flashed unutterable things across the pink roses.

“I think,” she said, “that we drink the good health of our host, Meester Macheson, Meester Victor, is it not?”

“Bravo!” declared a pallid-looking youth, her neighbour at the round supper table. “By Jove, if we were at the CÔte d’Or instead of the Warwick, we’d give him musical honours.”

“I drink,” Macheson declared, “to all of us who know how to live! Jules, another magnum, and look sharp.”

“Certainly, sir,” the man answered.

There flashed a quick look of intelligence between the waiter and a maÎtre d’hÔtel who was lingering near. The latter hesitated for a moment, and then nodded. It was a noisy party and none too reputable, but a magnum of champagne was an order. They were likely to make more noise still if they didn’t get it. So the wine was brought, and more toasts were drunk. Mademoiselle Rosine’s eyes flashed softer things than ever across the table, but she had the disadvantage of distance. Ella Merriam, the latest American importation, held the place of honour next Macheson, and she was now endeavouring to possess herself of his hand under the table.

“I say, Macheson, how is it none of us ever ran up against you before?” young Davenant demanded, leaning back in his chair. “Never set eyes on you myself, from the day you left Magdalen till I ran up against you at the Alhambra the other evening. Awfully studious chap Macheson was at college,” he added to the American girl. “Thought us chaps no end of rotters because we used to go the pace a bit. That’s so, isn’t it, Macheson?”

Macheson nodded.

“It is only the young who are really wise,” he declared coolly. “As we grow older we make fools of ourselves inevitably, either fools or beasts, according to our proclivities. Then we begin to enjoy ourselves.”

The girl by his side laughed.

“I guess you don’t mean that,” she said. “It sounds smart, but it’s real horrid. How old are you, Mr. Macheson?”

“Older than I look and younger than I feel,” he answered, gazing into his empty glass.

“Have you found what you call your proclivities?” she asked.

“I am searching for them,” Macheson answered. “The trouble is one doesn’t know whether to dig or to climb.”

“Why should one search at all?” the other man asked, drawing out a gold cigarette case from his trousers pocket, and carefully selecting a cigarette. “Life comes easiest to those who go blindfold. I’ve got a brother, private secretary to a Member of Parliament. He’s got views about things, and he makes an awful fag of life. What’s the good of it! He’ll be an old man before he’s made up his mind which way he wants to go. This sort of thing’s good enough for me!”

The magnum had arrived, and Macheson lifted a foaming glass.

“Davenant,” he declared, “you are a philosopher. We will drink to life as it comes! To life—as it comes!”

They none of them noticed the little break in his voice. A party of newcomers claimed their attention. Macheson, too, had seen them. He had seen her. Like a ghost at the feast, he sat quite motionless, his glass half raised in the air, the colour gone from his cheeks, his eyes set in a hard fast stare. Wilhelmina, in a plain black velvet gown, with a rope of pearls about her neck, her dark hair simply arranged about her pallid, distinguished face, was passing down the room, followed closely by the Earl of Westerdean, Deyes, and Lady Peggy. Her first impulse had been to stop; a light sprang into her eyes, and a delicate spot of colour burned in her cheeks. Then her eyes fell upon his companions; she realized his surroundings. The colour went: the momentary hesitation was gone. She passed on without recognition; Lady Peggy, after a curious glance, did the same. She whispered and laughed in Deyes’ ear as they seated themselves at an adjacent table. He looked round behind her back and nodded, but Macheson did not appear to see him.

A momentary constraint fell upon the little party. The American young lady leaned over to ask Davenant who the newcomers were.

“The elder man,” he said, “is the Earl of Westerdean, and the pretty fair woman Lady Margaret Penshore. The other woman is a Miss Thorpe-Hatton. Macheson probably knows more about them than I do!”

Macheson ignored the remark. He whispered something in his neighbour’s ear, which made her laugh heartily. The temporary check to their merriment passed away. Macheson was soon laughing and talking as much as any of them.

“Supper,” he declared, “would be the most delightful meal of the day in any other country except England. In a quarter of an hour the lights will be out.”

“But it is barbarous,” Mademoiselle Rosine declared. “Ah! Monsieur Macheson, you should come to Paris! There it is that one may enjoy oneself.”

“I will come,” Macheson answered, “whenever you will take me.”

She clapped her hands.

“Agreed,” she cried. “I have finished rehearsing. I have a week’s ‘vacance.’ We will go to Paris to-morrow, all four of us!”

“I’m on,” Davenant declared promptly. “I was going anyway in a week or two.”

Mademoiselle Rosine clapped her hands again.

“Bravo!” she cried. “And you, Mademoiselle?”

The girl hesitated. She glanced at Macheson.

“We will both come,” Macheson declared. “Miss Merriam will do me the honour to go as my guest.”

“We’ll stay at the VivandiÉre,” Davenant said. “I’ve a pal there who knows the ropes right up to date. What about the two-twenty to-morrow? We shall get there in time to change and have supper at Noyeau’s.”

“And afterwards—au Rat Mort——” Mademoiselle Rosine cried. “We will drink a glass of champagne with cher Monsieur FranÇois.”

Davenant raised his glass.

“One more toast, then, before the bally lights go out!” he exclaimed. “To Paris—and our trip!”

Some one touched Macheson on the arm. He turned sharply round. Deyes was standing there. Tall and immaculately attired, there was something a little ghostly in the pallor of his worn, beardless face, with its many wrinkles and tired eyes.

“Forgive me for interrupting you, my dear fellow,” he said. “We are having our coffee outside, just on the left there. Miss Thorpe-Hatton wants you to stop for a moment on your way out.”

Macheson hesitated perceptibly. A dull flush of colour stained his cheek, fading away almost immediately. He set his teeth hard.

“I shall be very happy,” he said, “to stop for a second.”

Deyes bowed and turned away. The room now was almost in darkness, and the people were streaming out into the foyer. Macheson paid the bill and followed in the wake of the others. Seeing him approach alone, Wilhelmina welcomed him with a smile, and drew her skirts on one side to make room for him to sit down. He glanced doubtfully around. She raised her eyebrows.

“Your friends,” she said, “are in no hurry. They can spare you for a moment.”

There was nothing in her tone to indicate any surprise at finding him there, or in such company. She made a few casual remarks in her somewhat languid fashion, and recalled him to the recollection of Lady Peggy, who was to all appearance flirting desperately with Lord Westerdean. Deyes had strolled across to a neighbouring group, and was talking to a well-known actor. Wilhelmina leaned towards him.

“Has it ever occurred to you,” she asked quietly, “that you left me a little abruptly the other afternoon?”

His eyes blazed into hers. He found it hard to emulate the quiet restraint of her tone and manner. It was a trick which he had never cultivated, never inherited, this playing with the passions in kid gloves, this muzzling and harnessing of the emotions.

“You know why,” he said.

She inclined her head ever so slightly to where his late companions were seated.

“And this?” she asked. “Am I responsible for this, too?”

He laughed shortly.

“It would never have occurred to me to suggest such a thing,” he declared. “I am amusing myself a little. Why not?”

“Are you?” she asked calmly.

Her eyes drew his. He almost fancied that the quiver at the corners of her lips was of mirth.

“Somehow,” she continued, “I am not sure of that. I watched you now and then in there. It seemed to me that you were playing a part—rather a ghastly part! There’s nothing so wearisome, you know, as pretending to enjoy yourself.”

“I had a headache to-night,” he said, frowning.

She bent towards him.

“Is it better now?” she whispered, smiling.

He threw out his hands with a quick fierce gesture. It was well that the great room was wrapped in the mysterious obscurity of semi-darkness, and that every one was occupied with the business of farewells. He sprang to his feet.

“I am going,” he said thickly. “My friends are expecting me.”

She shook her head.

“Those are not your friends,” she said. “You know very well that they never could be. You can go and wish them good night. You are going to see me home.”

“No!” he declared.

“If you please,” she begged softly.

He crossed the room unsteadily, and made his excuses with the best grace he could. Mademoiselle Rosine made a wry face. Miss Ella laid her fingers upon his arm and looked anxiously up at him.

“Say you won’t disappoint us to-morrow,” she said. “It’s all fixed up about Paris, isn’t it? Two-twenty from Charing Cross.”

“Yes!” he answered. “I will let you know if anything turns up.”

They all stood around him. Davenant laid his hand upon his shoulder.

“Look here, old chap,” he said, “no backing out. We’ve promised the girls, and we mustn’t disappoint them.”

“Monsieur Macheson would not be so cruel,” Mademoiselle Rosine pleaded. “He has promised, and Englishmen never break their workd. Is it not so? A party of four, yes! that is very well. But alone with Herbert here I could not go. If you do not come, all is spoilt! Is it not so, my friends?”

“Rather!” Davenant declared.

The other girl’s fingers tightened upon his arm.

“Don’t go away now,” she whispered. “Come round to my flat and we’ll all talk it over. I will sing you my new song. I’m crazy about it.”

Macheson detached himself as well as he could.

“I must leave you now,” he declared. “I can assure you that I mean to come to-morrow.”

He hurried after Wilhelmina, who was saying good night to her friends. A few minutes later they were being whirled westwards in her brougham.